


A Blank Page

by Kryptaria



Series: If You Were... 'verse outtakes and cut scenes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, If You Were Mine outtake, If You Were verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For six weeks, every text message John and Sherlock exchange has closer together. Now, John risks losing them all, in order to keep his loved ones safe.</p><p>If You Were Mine outtake. http://archiveofourown.org/works/412861/chapters/685432</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blank Page

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the If You Were... 'verse. Outtake of If You Were Mine, near the end of the story, while John is recovering at Irene and Kate's house. This won't make sense unless you've read If You Were Mine.
> 
> Special thanks to Youcantsaymylastname for a super-quick beta.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Tuesday, 9 Mar 2010**

Rain pinged against the vent in the ceiling, audible even over the sound of the shower. Kate closed the door before too much warmth escaped. Steam billowed, giving her glimpses of John Watson in little flashes. The red-tinged heat lamps in the ceiling added depth to the ruddy hue of his skin, streaked dark where the hot spray from both showerheads impacted. His crutch, sling, and splint were carefully arranged on the edge of the counter nearest the shower. His clothes weren’t on the floor — probably already in the laundry basket. He was always so neat, something Kate appreciated.

She set a small plastic bag down on the counter by the door before carrying the shopping bag across the ensuite. Quietly, she took out the contents: jeans, button-down shirt, drawers, socks. They weren’t anything fancy, but she’d indulged herself a little bit, choosing dark brown silk for the shirt, knowing it would bring out the lingering desert-gold highlights in his hair.

He still hadn’t turned. He was leaning against the side wall of the shower alcove, right hand splayed flat on the marble helping balance the weight kept mostly on his left leg. Kate looked at him, reading the tension in his body, and quietly made a decision.

A minute later, she stepped into the alcove, announcing her presence by softly saying, “John.” She’d learned better than to sneak up on him.

Startled, he twisted to look over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide as he realized what she was — or _wasn’t_ — wearing. “Uh. Kate —”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted, reaching past him for the soap in the niche on the wall. “Miss Adler would never forgive either of us if you fell and hurt yourself.”

“I’m not _broken_.”

“But you are hurt. Let me help you?” she offered, her thumb pressed to the flip-top of the soap dispenser.

He had been so strong even yesterday when they’d found him at the warehouse, blood caked in his hair, wrists raw from struggling to free himself. Not just strong. _Angry_. It had been terrifying to see him so changed; even with the most difficult clients, he was always so steady and calm and very much in control.

Now, caught wrong-footed in the privacy of the shower, she could see the raw pain lurking beneath the anger that still burned in him. Then he closed his eyes, gave a brusque nod, and turned away.

Kate wanted to speak, but there was nothing she could say. So she worked the soap between her palms, shivering a bit from the droplets that splashed over her skin, and rubbed small circles over his back. She’d caught glimpses of his body yesterday, before Bill had asked her and Irene to leave, but John had been wearing a spare shirt, left in one of the drawers, when they’d been allowed back in.

Now, she allowed herself to study him. The scar on his back was much smaller — entry wound, she guessed. She wondered why he’d been shot in the back; he didn’t seem the type to turn his back on an enemy.

His torso was a pale contrast to his hands and face and neck. Even after being back in London for more than half a year, the tan lines had yet to fade. He’d stayed in shape, beautifully defined muscles tensing and relaxing as Kate gently soothed the knots.

It wasn’t until she’d massaged all the way down to his lower back before he spoke, saying, “I take it Irene knows you’re here. Or will she be challenging me to a duel at dawn?”

Kate smiled, quietly relieved that his spirit hadn’t been broken by what must have been a terrible ordeal. “She knows. She isn’t the jealous type. And we’re both your friends,” she said, moving her hands back up.

“I don’t usually shower — _Christ,_ ” he breathed, his back arching as she gently dragged her nails down his skin. His body shuddered away even more of the lingering tension as she reached his hips. “That feels bloody _fantastic_.”

“And now you know why I pay my manicurist so much,” Kate teased gently, scratching her way back up. He made a rumbling sort of assent and folded his right forearm against the wall so he could rest his forehead comfortably.

She scratched his back with gentle strokes until his breathing had gone slow and shallow. Then she poured more soap in her palm and gently reached around him, being very careful of his injured left wrist. She didn’t want to ask him to turn around — not on the wet tiles, with his wrenched knee — so she washed his chest as best she could.

When her hands dipped down lower, following a fine trail of soft hair, he said, “Kate, I don’t want _that_.”

His reticence was charming. Kate smiled, resting her cheek against his back, and said, “I know. Though feel free to change your mind when your knee is healed. I’ve been dying to give you a try.”

He laughed, the sound breathy and tense as his body responded to her hands. _Lovely,_ she thought with a shiver of her own. Sometimes, she missed this, and Irene only rarely invited men to share their bed.

“Ask me again in a couple of months — _nicely,_ ” John added, and the edge in his voice made her shiver.

She would have loved to allow her hands to linger, but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. She poured more soap into her hands instead and knelt so she could wash his legs, barely touching when she got to his wrenched knee. It still felt swollen.

“Will you need to ice this?” she asked.

“I should. I’m getting sick of wearing nothing but a bathrobe, though,” he complained.

She wanted to tease, suggesting he leave it off altogether, but she just said, “I’ll help you dress after the ice.”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you, Kate. For everything.”

“Of course, John,” she answered, rising. “Did you want me to do your hair?”

He frowned. “Best not. Give it another day to heal. If you don’t mind helping again tomorrow, that is.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said genuinely.

She took down the detachable shower head so she could carefully rinse the soap away from them both. Then, after she put it back, she stepped out to wrap herself in a towel, leaving John to turn off the water when he was ready. He soaked up the heat for just another minute before he closed the faucets.

John turned carefully and laughed when Kate immediately wrapped a towel around his waist, covered his shoulders with a second, and started patting him dry with a third. “This isn’t exactly incentive for me to recover and leave, you know,” he warned.

“You can live under my side of the bed. I’ll bring you snacks and we can play in the shower late at night,” she offered, relieved to see his teasing smile was genuine, though tinged with sadness.

After he was dry, Kate didn’t let him take another step until she handed him the crutch. He hobbled off the gently sloped shower floor and onto the rug. “You’re a blessing, Kate,” he said gratefully, leaning the crutch against the wall and reaching for the new shirt.

She snatched it up and helped him carefully slide it on. “It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him.

He rolled the left sleeve high enough to make room for the splint, and she scolded herself for not having purchased something with short sleeves instead. She knelt back down to help him step into his pants, pulling them up into place once he had his balance. She couldn’t stop herself from looking him over with a smile. Shirt open to show his broad, strong chest, pants hugging his hips...

“Very nice,” she approved. “I should get the photographer now, so you can’t run.”

“I can’t run, but I can still catch you,” he threatened, blushing — actually _blushing_. It was so adorable, so very unlike the fierce strength he always showed, that Kate had to turn away to hide her grin.

She put on her heels, not bothering with her stockings, and gathered up the rest of her clothes. She needed to fix her hair and was home for the rest of the day, so there was no need to hurry. John brushed his teeth and glared at the stubble on his jaw.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got an electric razor?” he asked. “I’d rather not cut off half my skin shaving right-handed.”

Irene liked to keep amenities on hand for guests. After a moment’s consideration, Kate remembered where she’d hidden the razor away, keeping it plugged in so it was always charged. “I’ll fetch one,” she said, going for the door.

He turned to watch, and then asked, “What’s this?”

Kate saw he was looking at the plastic bag. “Oh. Your phone.”

John’s face went blank, all except the fierce look in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said in a soft tone that made something inside her go cold. He pulled the bag over so he could take out the phone. “The data? The texts?”

“They were able to import your address book, but the photos, texts, and voicemails are gone.”

His jaw clenched. Anger seemed to fill the room, driving her back a step, scrambling to recall _exactly_ what he’d told her. He’d said he needed a new phone number, one not connected to his old number, under a completely different account. He wanted the phone reset to factory defaults. And he’d said that if it meant deleting data, that was acceptable.

Then it was gone, and he nodded, turning back to his reflection. “Not a problem,” he said, his voice tightly controlled, giving her no clue as to his thoughts. “I hate to bother you even more, but could you get me a notepad or notebook?”

“Of course.” She glanced down at his hand, still holding the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white, the tension in his arm making his hand tremble.

She slipped into the bedroom without another word. She went right to the desk and found a small moleskine book. A quick look through verified that it was blank. Before she left the room, she set the book and a pen where John would see them on the bed.

Fifteen minutes later, hoping John’s mood had improved, Kate carried a tray into the guest room: ice, a pot of tea, and the electric razor. “I made tea as well. Did you want biscuits, or are you saving room for dinner?”

“Dinner’s fine,” he said absently, chewing on the end of the pen.

She nodded and silently arranged the tea fixings on the bedside table. Then she set the ice pack on his knee, glancing at the notepad. John was left-handed; the injury and splint on his left wrist combined to turn his handwriting into an almost childlike scrawl. The letters were large enough for Kate to read easily.

_I’d make you sleep._

_We’d stay inside, watching it snow._

_You wouldn’t be bored._

_~~You’d sleep more.~~ _ _I’d make you sleep._

She wanted to ask, but whatever he was writing was obviously intensely private, taking all of his concentration. So she just smoothed the towel wrapped around the ice pack, poured his first cup of tea, and set the electric razor up on the bathroom counter.

He was still writing when she left.


End file.
